


Blue Skyed Eternity

by leaveyoursanityatthedoor



Series: Witch Verse [1]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost (Swedish Band), Ghost Band, The VVitch, The Witch (2016)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Intense, Kissing, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Seduction, Seduction to the Dark Side, Sex, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveyoursanityatthedoor/pseuds/leaveyoursanityatthedoor
Summary: "All witchcraft comes from carnal lust, which is in women insatiable." Bereft of family, food, and reason to live, she goes to him. He saves her life, and she gives him her soul. ('The Witch' crossover, with an of age Thomasin, and Papa II introducing virgins to the delicious life. PLEASE READ NOTES.)





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~The Witchy part (feel free to skip to the TLDR!)~~ 
> 
> This is a crossover and take of off the final scene from the 2015 film 'The Witch' (aka 'The VVitch'). Needless to say, if you haven't seen it, I urge that you do so before you read this fic, lest you miss a slew of references and thus be wholly confused. Plus, it'll make you appreciate the fic more. (Oh, and I hasten to mention it's a damn good film, IMO. If you're one for esoteric OSTs, you're in for a treat). If, however, you choose to continue without having watched it, SPOILERS. 
> 
> Although her age is never specified in the film or the reviews, I estimate Thomasin to be in her early to mid teens; ergo, to be safe, I've changed her age to 18 (and I hope any readers below that age will click back, right now). This being a smutfic, I've also had to make a necessary alteration to the film's narrative—namely adding a sexual element largely absent in the film itself. Although Thomasin is a girl on the brink of womanhood, and lusted after by Caleb, she herself is not a sexualised character. Unlike with Caleb, there is nothing to suggest she has any sexual desire (although this may be more for lack of eligible male characters to lust after, and puritan society's repressive values, than anything else). Her and the other witches' nudity in the film is as representative of 'sinful' freedom from the oppressive yoke of puritanical society as it is literal sexuality. Even the scene that inspired this fic—her eventual meeting with Satan—although very Papa II to me on one level, is metaphorical of far more than sexual awakening. If Thomasin is at all aroused by Satan's human form, that arousal is bound up in fear and confliction, and it's clear nothing sexual took place. The scene just checked my boxes for occult entities seducing pure ladies to the dark side, and the whole clothed male x naked female dynamic. Those things are sexy to me, and that's why I wrote this fic. 
> 
> TLDR: I've had to add a couple of years to Thomasin's age, and sex her narrative up a bit. 
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
> ~~The Ghosty part~~
> 
> Although the idea of the Ghosties being supernatural beings isn't something I'm averse to, it never held any appeal for me until I saw 'The Witch', with Satan hanging out in the form of Black Phillip the goat, seducing a virgin into the arms of the Devil. If that doesn't scream Papa II then I'm Donald Trump's caterpillar toupe. Upon seeing the ending, a little bell went off in my head, and I thought why not have some fun with the wackier reaches of the Ghost characters? If in this universe Satan gives his witchy minions magical powers, he'd certainly do so for his papal ones; it also allows for a much more sinnister interpretation of them, devoid of the irony they were created with. 
> 
> So, here we are! 
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
> 
> I do not own Thomasin, Black Phillip, or Papa Emeritus II. I am forever indebted to Robert Eggers, Tobias Forge, Martin Persner and Peter Hällje for them.

**Blue Skyed Eternity**

 

Now, sitting in the darkness, she reflects.

Everyone is a child of original sin, her father had said only yesterday, God rest his soul. But she herself is a sinner beyond the virtue of birth, there being trespasses she has never dared admit aloud, or even alone in prayer. She wonders if it is those very secrets that have played a part in bringing her here, somehow; or perhaps, worse yet, not even a part but the root cause of the evil that has seen fit to demolish the world as she knew it. Was she the one who infected them all? Did the impure thoughts of her private sanctum corrupt the air around her, to be breathed in by the others and to fester there? Was it this corrupt  energy that caused a rift in the plantation populace, and then slowly dismantled her family's faith, love, and sanity? Had it seeped out of her skin as she slept, calling to the witches in the woods? Had it soaked into the crops, too, giving them over to disease and decay?

Was all of this her fault?

Night has fallen, a biting and vindictive chill to the air that seems as if it wants her to suffer, or even die. Perhaps it would be better if she did die? After all, nothing remains for her here—bereft of society, family, and any sustainable food source.

She wants to live. And that is why she will go to him.

Back in the plantation, two years and another world away now, she first felt him—the man she had called The Stranger. That was, until tonight, when everything became clear.

He had come to her in what she originally believed to be a remarkably realistic dream, but now suspected was a reality. Awoken by the musical _kraa... kraa... kraa..._ of a raven, she had crept outside, as if drawn by some psychic force. A moon so preternaturally bright cast awesome shadows of the surrounding houses and trees, and in that moment she had wanted nothing except to stand there, in the middle of the dirt road, basking in its glow. If anyone were to see her, they would think her mad, so she would not loiter. Just a moment, alone with the moon and its paintings. It was whilst standing there that she could have sworn she glimpsed her family's billy goat, Black Phillip, ambling between two houses—which of course was impossible, because he didn't have the means to break out of his pen. It was her imagination, she told herself, and gave the apparition no more thought.

Her grasp of time seemed to slip away, and then, what could have been anything from moments to minutes later, she became aware of a presence behind her. A human presence. An adult, male presence. Strong, virile, powerful, authoritarian. Not threatening, as such, but replete with dark allure blacker than the deepest night, and awakening something in her beyond all comprehension.

These things she felt, down to the very marrow in her bones. Goose flesh pricking her clothed body, she did not turn to face him, nor did she speak, because suddenly she could do neither. Gripped by some tantalizing fear, some phantasm dancing just out of her reach, she merely waited, whether for him to leave, or to talk, or to... _do_ something. Finally, he did, silently placing one hand on her hip, the other on her upper arm. She wanted to yield to him then, relax back into an embrace that she knew, she just knew, would be warm as summer sun. More awaited her in that embace, she intuited, and she feared that if she were to have any more bodily contact with this man, she would succumb to it.

It was then that he whispered, a foreign-accented carress, "Two years."

Then, as magically as he had appeared, he vanished, seemingly into thin air. She did turn, then, and for the second time thought she saw Black Phillip, this time mere yards from her, trotting back in the direction of his pen. She blinked forcefully, and he remained visible, the moonlight lending an otherworldly blue sheen to his pitch black coat. That was when, paradoxically, she knew she had to be dreaming, although it seemed absurd, if not impossible, to be aware of such a thing.

When she awoke the next morning, she found a glaze between her thighs, and a newfound sensitivity to her skin—especially her sex—that both frightened and fascinated her. She had felt compelled to think of the Stranger, and to-

But no. She had stopped that thought. Quashed it. Pushed it right down into some recess of mind where it would not trouble her again...or so she thought. She was a child of sixteen then, and she knew the stranger to be someone, some _thing_ , for which she wasn't or at least shouldn't be ready. Yet the 'dream' stayed with her, rendered clear as the solid world; frequently it kept her awake at night, making her fear even closing her eyes in case the spectre were to visit her again. Eventually, however, just as consciousness ultimately and implacably gives way to sleep, her resolve weakened. Like Eve, the mother of all humanity, she became weak, and she let the sin inside her. Under the covers, while her siblings slept, she thought of the faceless stranger as she explored herself, having to fight to suppress her vocalizations.

Shameful, wicked girl, bound for Hell.

After every incident, she would vow never again, only to break those vows within days. For a while she couldn't look anyone in the eyes, convinced they would see into her polluted soul, and rightly castigate her for it. Yet, no-one ever seemed to suspect a thing, and in due course she felt it safe to relent, hiding her sin in plain sight. The shame, however, remained.

During their free time, many of the town's young women would gossip with one another, confessing in hushed tones their burgeoning attractions to boys, their lustful trespasses at spying on their male contemporaries bathing. One particular girl, a veritable paragon of sin, would whisper of dalliances with various elders, describing in detail their sexual knowledge and confidence, the differences in their well-established bodies from those of boys, and the pleasure those changes brought; and whilst feigning outrage, Thomasin would envy her, trying desperately to quell the rising color in her cheeks, knowing somehow that dream Stranger was himself an older man. It dismayed her, because she wanted what she knew she couldn't have—her lustful needs were tangled up in an older man made of air.

On the precipice of her eighteenth birthday, a week prior to Samuel's demise, the Stranger returned. It didn't escape her notice how Black Phillip paid more attention to her than usual that day, stopping to watch her every time she was in close proximity. The goat's focusless gaze unnerved her, to the extent she wondered if somehow he could read what went on in her head. After all, it was his presence in that first fateful dream that heralded the Stranger's appearance, and followed his disappearance. A preposterous notion, of course, but one that lingered doggedly, like a bad smell; one now born out by these last few weeks' tragedies.

That night, the same dream occurred, except in a different place. For as long as she has left to live, she will never forget how she longed for the _kraa_ of that specific raven, somehow distinctive from all the others, beckoning only to her; nor will she forget the sheer compulsion she felt to be guided by that call. She stood between the house and the barn, resplendent in the blazing moonlight, chill air be damned. Gazing in the direction of the woods, she found herself wondering if Black Phillip would materialize again in some impossible location.

What immediately followed was not the conjuring of Black Phillip, but a hand, tracing a vaporous path down her back.

She knew she should have been frightened, should have jumped clean out of her skin.

She was neither afraid, nor startled. A sinner she was, a slut in mind, but she was not afraid of him, even though she felt she probably should be. She had waited and pined for him for two years that felt like an eternity, and now here he was.

At his touch, in place of terror, she felt absurdly serene.

Strong hands slid over her upper arms, gently enclosing around her shoulders. Slowly, she turned her head to her right, to inspect those hands, registering black, leather gloves. That was all she could see of him. Untroubled by who or what she might find, she longed to turn to him.

"So close, sweet child," he intoned softly, in that accent from some faraway land.

Her body responded with a rolling shudder. Moisture began to gather in her sex, and her heart started to trip-hammer, announcing a sudden, almost overpowering need to surrender. She wanted to remove her bonnet, undo her braids, and let him stroke her hair. How she yearned for him to see and touch her hair.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep herself under control. As a young woman, she had no choice but to let the man set the pace. In spite of her lust-addled state, she would still have to behave with some propriety.

"Who art thou?" she asked, her voice a wisp.

The stranger did not respond. The comforting pressure on her shoulders evaporated. When she opened her eyes a few seconds later, the hands on her shoulders were gone. Had he taken a step back? Had time skipped a dozen or so beats and he had left altogether, as silently as he had arrived? A spike of desperation rose in her chest, and she whipped around.

No-one.

But who should be outside of his pen, regarding her, than Black Phillip. The creature acknowledged her attention with a snuffle.

She frowned at him, forgetting for a beat that none of this was real. Of course it wasn't; the fact that she could think lucidly and rationality, and remember the last dream in which virtually the same events occurred, didn't make it any less so. Yet, the thought of her parents waking up in the dream and finding the billy goat out here sat uneasily with her, and she took it upon herself to hustle him back into the barn. He went, with uncharacteristic ease. He had mud on his horns, she noted, feeling the substance rub off onto her hands, although there was very limited water in the house's pail, and all of a sudden she felt too tired to go to the brook and wash them.

Upon the morning, she found her palms crusted with that same 'imaginary' mud. She could have sworn she had washed thoroughly before going to bed. Maybe she had sleepwalked?

Then it started—the descent into a living nightmare. Twins Jonas and Mercy taking to playing with Black Phillip, claiming he spoke to them in human tongue; baby Samuel vanishing as if into the ether; accusations of witchcraft from the twins, which she admittedly played into in order to scare them and have them shut up. Yet when she uttered those words, albeit in jest thoroughly convincing to her younger sister, had she not felt some semblance of truth, a twinge of something as tantalizing and dark as the allure of the Stranger? In those moments, had it not seemed like she had been longing to say those very things for years?

"I am that very witch. When I sleep my spirit slips away from my body and dances naked with The Devil. That's how I signed his book." Was that not what she would have done with the Stranger, if he hadn't disappeared with such haste? If he had presented her with the book, like a prospective witch before her master Satan, would she not have signed it, given her soul to him in fantasy for what she could not have in reality? Furthermore, did she never yearn to taste freedom, divested of the binds imposed upon all women in her society? If she were to question herself, could she honestly not answer that she wanted more than her lot? Fiendishness notwithstanding, there was something to envy in witches; although they were outcasts, they were not repressed.

She did not allow herself to dwell on these things. They alarmed her. She was no witch. She did not want to be a witch.

Yesterday Caleb died, another victim of this paranormal malaise. Today, Mercy and Jonas are gone, presumed dead. No—definitely dead, she is sure. Then her father, slain at the horns of the twins' alleged conspirator, Black Phillip himself. Finally, her mother, by Thomasin's own hands in self-defense. All of this is her fault, because she had wished for the Stranger to return; she had as good as killed her entire family with the same traitorous hands that would kill her mother. She knows now, with equal certainty as that of Samuel and the twins' deaths, that two possibilities exist: either the Stranger has always been real, or she has made flesh and bone out of fantasy. So, despite her protestations, she _is_ a witch. He came to her for a reason, because he saw into her and knew what she was, and then she called him back, or willed him into existence. She is a murderer, and she has been working the Devil's magic all along.

If she had resisted, maybe none of this would have happened. Then again, maybe it would have? Maybe it was all preordained, and there is nothing she could have done or not done that would have prevented it?

It wasn't by chance that her family acquired Black Phillip, less than a month before that first encounter—Black Phillip must be the Stranger's familiar. Guided by the Stranger, or drawn by the subconscious of mind that would create him, the billy goat found them. Nor was it chance that led her family to this place, beside a wood where malevolence dwelt. Whether by coincidence or fate, she with her base desires drew them here, and she will have to answer to God for it.

But not yet.

The first thing she did upon traipsing forlornly back into that dreary house was to remove her outer garments, bonnet, and then to undo her braids; with everyone gone, she had no need for them and all their restrictions. In spite of the fear, the horror and the anguish, she felt a small measure of relief in the act. The pretense was gone, the skin shed. She wasn't that girl anymore.

That respite, however, proved temporary, the weight of the price she had paid for freedom bearing down upon her with savage immediacy. She was cold, and despite having only awoken mere minutes ago, she was tired. And she was alone—utterly, starkly alone—even God having realized He could not save her. She took a blanket from her now-deceased parents' bed, wrapped it around her, and sat at the bench. Bone weary, escape was impossible, but there remained the refuge of sleep; and if her dream proved terrifying, she was sure no nightmare could be worse than the one she was living.

Sleep claimed her with nary a fuss, as if she hadn't slept in days.

Seemingly a heartbeat later, the now familiar _kraa_ of a raven— _that_ raven—cut through the void, and she awoke into darkness.

And so she has sat for a moment, reflecting.

Now, if living is truly what she wants, she knows what she must do.

She is frightened and full of self recrimination, but she does want to live.

The Stranger is here, waiting for her, and Black Phillip will take her to him. Two years have been leading up to this.

She kindles a small fire from which she lights a lantern, then steps out of the house. She could reconsider, or run away, but she won't. And she won't give praying one last chance, because she knows without doubt that God is lost to her.

The raven is perched upon one of the remaining fences of the stricken pen; beneath it, Black Phillip. They watch her. As she approaches them, she does not look back, back to where the remnants of the old Thomasin lie. With every forward step, her skin prickles, and she notices the pitter patter of tiny rat fists drumming against her rib cage. She hears herself breathing. The chill cuts through her shift and through her skin, right to her bones; but, although it is warmer back inside, her determination does not waver. She will not retreat.

Several paces away from the duo, she stops, takes a deep breath. She is afraid, but she will not shy away. Her gaze focuses first on the beady eyes of the raven, glinting in the lamplight, then on the billy goat. They know her. They see into her. Theirs is a relationship too intimate for her to be able to hide from.

Black Phillip stares her out for a prolonged moment, as if challenging her, daring her to confront what has been her truth all along. In spite of the icy fingers of fear skittering down her spine, she holds firm. Evidently acknowledging her resolve, the billy goat turns and trots towards the half wrecked barn, the shadows in its interior swallowing him. She follows.

This structure, which she has known for almost as long as the Stranger, is transformed tonight. It seems larger in the dark, and the air feels preternaturally still, poised for the event that is approaching. She sets the lantern on the floor, the flame making monstrous entities of shadows. Black Phillip stands at the far end, patiently waiting. She approaches him.

"Black Phillip," she says, choosing her words carefully, "I conjure thee to speak to me."

Conjure, because she is a witch.

"Speak as thou dost speak to Jonas and Mercy, and take me to the man you serve."

Silence from the billy goat.

"Dost thou understand my English tongue?"

Silence.

"Answer me."

Maddening silence. She begins to wonder then if she has, in fact, gone insane. She has lost her mind to base desires for an imaginary stranger, and has confused freakish coincidence for fate. The events of late would have been enough to shake anyone's grasp on reality, she reasons, and now here she is talking to a goat who was never in league with Lucifer or the Stranger to begin with. If she is indeed mad, she will have to end her life. There will be nowhere to run anymore.

She turns to leave.

"What-" That voice—she heard it. She is positive she heard it. She stops in her tracks. "-dost thou want with him?"

It is the Stranger's voice; and it is not a question, but a lock awaiting a key. He knows what she wants—he just wants to hear her say it.

She turns around.

Black Phillip is not the Stranger's familiar; he is his _disguise_. Frightened as she is to venture into this new, dark world, knowing this emboldens her.

"What dost he want with me?" She reflects his usage of the third person, using politeness to balance her moxie.

Contrary to the laws of nature, the billy goat manages a wry smile. "Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live _deliciously_?"

His last word catches her off guard, the sensuality hitting her like a physical punch. Her breath hitches. There comes a throb of longing at her core. He is bewitching her, but she wants to be taken. He is playing a game and winning, and she doesn't care.

"Yes," she utters.

"Wouldst thou like to see the _world_?"

"What will you from me?" She manages hurriedly, because now she has to know, has to hear the truth. Whether he is Lucifer himself or an Earth-bound but high ranking minion, two years ago he chose her, and she aches to hear him say it.

"Dost thou see a book before thee?"

She looks down, and where a moment ago lay only straw, there it waits by her feet: the Devil's ledger, hefty with thousands of names. Beside it sit a quill and pot of ink. The rat fists inside her rib cage start up again. In a manger, the same type of structure in which Jesus was born, she is on the verge of making a deal with Satan. All of a sudden, starkly aware of her reality, she feels unsure whether she can go through with this.

The candle suddenly dims, almost to the point of extinguishment, distracting her attention. It flickers back to life the moment she looks at it, and when she brings her gaze back to Black Phillip's direction-

The Stranger is standing before her.

Black shoes. Black...robes? Her vision follows the trail, up decadently smooth material, to his face.

She had never imagined his appearance, besides that he was an older man who wore black, leather gloves. Seeing him here, now, she swears not just her heart and lungs but time itself stops.

_You,_ she thinks. _Oh dear sweet forsaken Heaven, it's you._

In another life, she might only have feared him, or felt repulsed. He looks like the inverse of the Pope, the sinister factor enhanced with a face painted or perhaps even tattoed to resemble a skull, and a deathly pale left eye. She cannot put a number on his age, but he looks older than even her deceased father. He is not what the she of beyond two years ago would have melted for.

What she feels now, however, is a dizzying cascade of emotions: fear; desire; confusion; anger; guilt; need. Half of her wants to rush into his arms; the other half is terrified that if he so much as touches her she will evaporate. Once, there had been a rumor in the plantation of an occult organisation existing somewhere in the vicinity, luring virtuous young women into the arms of Satan, and reinventing them as witches. However, on account of there being no direct evidence of such an entity, the rumor had largely died, witchcraft once again being attributed to the weakness of women themselves. She knows now that the rumor is true.

He holds her in his sights, his expression unreadable. It is almost painful for her to make eye contact with him, and she simultaneously wants to look at him forever, delighting in this torturous feeling, and to look away and hide. He has the quality of the nightmare creations she has seen in books—wondrous and terrifying upon first glance, and no less so with continued exposure.

"Remove thy shift," the Stranger commands softly, his voice pure seduction.

She knows she could protest or even walk away, that she is not obligated to obey him. Their meeting may have been predestined, but what she does now is her choice.

She chooses to undress, to be naked as sin before this unholy man whose touch she both fears and craves. She wants this. She wants him. Despite a rising, giddy anxiety for what she is about to do, she does not look away.

Only as the last piece of her old self falls to the ground does her gaze switch to the Book. She can feel the Stranger's gaze raking over her virgin form as he approaches, and she has never been more aware of her gender than she is now. He slinks behind her, his left hand igniting delicious shivers as it trails lightly across her upper back, to reach a stop at her left shoulder. He deftly sweeps her long hair back over her shoulder, giving himself access to the sensitive skin of her neck, whilst his right settles on her right shoulder. He is slightly to her left now, the significance not lost on her. She can feel the raw power in his touch, and although her tears are welling up, her galloping heart rejoices. He is not trapping her, but supporting her.

The tears come—not irrepressible, wracking sobs of grief, but slow trickles of knowledge and acceptance. She is crying both because of what she has lost, and of what she is gaining, a bittersweet farewell and hello at the same time. She has traded her entire world for this, for him.

Instantly, the ledger is floating in front of her, and the quill is in her right hand, its tip saturated with ink.

"I cannot write my name." Her voice is tremulous, feeble. Of course, girls in her society generally attending school, she has the knowledge and skill to read and write; it is that, suddenly, she is paralyzed with fear. Fear of him, and her feelings for him. Fear of the unknown wilderness stretching out before her and beyond the furthest reaches of God's light. Fear of herself, of all that she has caused recently, and all that she will do if she finalizes this pact with the Stranger.

But she also knows the truth: this is what she wants, truly. In her eighteen years, this is the first choice she has made for herself: the choice to live. If indeed she had renounced God before she was even aware of it, this is what remains, and it is worth it because the Stranger's embrace is there for her, always.

"I will guide thy hand," the Stranger whispers, his right hand sliding down over hers, gloved, male skin covering naked female.

Finally, she is ready. She lets go of the fear.

She watches, awestruck, as the unholy man manipulates her fingers, inscribing her name on the paper. It feels exhilerating to be guided by him, and undeniably erotic.

Then it is done, the deal sealed. Nothing around her has changed. The world is not a different place. _She_ is different and new, and _His_.

"Well done, sweet child," he coos. The ledger, quill and ink vanish, and he is pulling her to him from behind, and even before her back fully meets his front she feels-

She gasps in surprise, desire exploding at the knowledge of what she is experiencing for the first time: this is his arousal, ready and waiting to penetrate her. And she, likewise, is copiously wet for him, primed to receive. Her reaction illicits a small chuckle from him, a little fun at her expense, but void of malice. She senses he is supremely experienced carnally, having deflowered his fair share of virgins to boot; it must be delightful for him to witness their response, even more so to be the catalyst who awakens them to the world of womanhood.

Her heart is fluttering as he pulls her against him, registering the delectable warmth of his body, most concentrated in his cock—oh, dear sweet forsaken God, she is longing to have him inside her. One strong, satin-clothed arm encircles her waist, the other gently cups her chin, tilting her head slightly upwards as if she were incapable of doing it herself. The manipulation does not perturb her, because hadn't she always longed to be at his command? First, two years ago, she gave him her mind; moments ago she gave him her soul; now she gives him her body, and it is so, so right. She goes with it, trusting him to lead, to continue guiding as he did her hand, her teacher in this strange new world. She gazes up at a face that she should have found ghastly, but instead associates only with desire, and salvation.

"Welcome," he says, his eyes warm.

 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Due to not being well versed in the 17th century vernacular, I'd rather 'translate' the characters' dialogue into our 21st century one, than attempt theirs and make an utter shambles of it. Add to this using modern day terminology for sexual slang, because 1. this is fiction; and 2. the 1630s names for them are funnier than they are sexy. 
> 
> 2\. Thanks to all my wonderful people. You know who you are ;)

**Chapter 2**

 

He inclines his head, and instinctually she already knows the next step to this dance, her eyelids fluttering closed in expectation. With tender precision, he presses his painted lips to her unadorned ones, and if it were possible for a person to melt she swore she would have done so right there. He brushes his lips against hers, whisper soft in both texture and pressure—qualities she wouldn't have predicted in a man—provoking a small moan from her. Stunned by the dual sensation of his mouth and body, for those first few moments she is rendered passive, incapable of anything but taking in the fact that he is finally kissing her. Then her agency starts rising to the fore, and she begins to reciprocate, tentatively exploring his lips with hers. Registering every tiny movement, every point of contact between them, she is utterly wrapt. Although he tastes neutral, the mere feeling of him surpasses the smoothest butter, the sweetest fruit, or any taste she has ever hungered for.

He increases the pressure, deepening their union, and she whimpers against him, her back arching as far as his embrace will allow. Those arms and hands holding her in place, protecting her, feel divine, and his kiss... Oh God, oh Lucifer, oh whoever, his kiss is comforting and sensual at the same time, affectionate yet erotic, all borders between love and lust dissolving. Paradoxically, she has never felt more real and more present than she is now, yet she can't quite believe it. It' s as if everything up until now has been a dream, an enforced and claustrophobic sleep, that she has at long last emerged from. _He_ has made _her_ real.

She does not consciously follow his lead, so much as lets herself be swayed by him—as his tongue invades her mouth, as if to lap up her breath, she strokes it with hers. It is an unusual sensation, but a wholly arousing one, causing her to writhe involuntarily, mewling into him. It is when he gives one slow grind of his hips, teasing her with his satin-covered hardness, that she loses control. Some primal drive takes over her, and she is the one to intensify their contact, kissing him harder, faster, her mouth wider and her tongue more strident. He matches her fervency, stepping up the sensual massage to an almost bruising level, and she is lost in his current. She presses her naked self flush against him, as if trying to absorb his body heat through his vestments. She wants to be devoured.

When finally they surface for air, her lips are throbbing slightly, as if she has been slapped in the face. Immediately, she misses the contact, and leans up for more, but he places one leather-clad finger on her moistened lips and purrs "Patience, child. Let's take this somewhere more comfortable." The light flickers in those lucid eyes, and in the hazel green one she sees a miniature reflection of herself, as if he has captured her already.

With resumed gentleness he picks her up, one strong arm across her back, the other under the crook of her legs. It feels amazing to be carried by him, supported and held aloft by his force and strength, and to be on the receiving end of his desire and love in mind, body and soul. There is something incredibly intimate, too, in him being between her and the rest of the world, and in him having the power to save or ruin her as he wishes. He has played his part in razing her old life to the ground, and now it is he building one afresh for her, _with_ her. If any part of her hates him, that same part is also indebted to him.

“What is your name?” she asks as he carries her out of the barn, past the raven on its sentry duty.

He looks at her, the hint of a smirk playing on his painted lips—the paint, she notices, unchanged by her kisses. "I have many names. But you may call me Papa."

Her heart gives an almost audible thud, and her pulse quickens. Papa, like the Pope, leader of the religion her own society railed against. Papa, like a biological father. This man is sin personified, the epitome of everything she has been taught to avoid and recoil from; it only stokes her ardor for him.

They pass the corpses of her parents, a twinge of grief tugging at her. Since Samuel's disappearance, she had become the outlet for her mother's blame, hurt and sorrow, to the extent that her parents had been planning to send her to be a maid in another family. Katherine had sunk further and further into an abyss of rancor, to the point where she would have killed her daughter had she not been killed _by_ her. Thomasin did not hate her mother, but, as deplorable as it felt to even acknowledge, she couldn't be sure she loved her anymore, either. She loved what her mother used to be, not what she became.

And her father? He had been a hypocrite, prideful, and a liar, cumulatively as sinful as she herself. Her own father, using her as a cover for his own misdeeds. Yet, she couldn't resent him. Never. Last night, as she had watched him through the slats in the barn he had imprisoned her and the twins in, he had found the courage to finally admit his failings, and to forgive his children theirs. To forgive her _hers_. Although he hadn't said so in as many words, he had seen her for the witch that she was, and still he had loved her.

Samuel, unbaptised and stolen, would be in Hell, but the saving grace was that he had never experienced much of life. He wouldn't understand Hell, and that might just be enough to protect him from the worst of it. Mercy and Jonas had never been right to begin with; there had always been something of the delinquent about them, and in all honesty it didn't surprise her that Papa as Black Phillip had spoken to them first. Had she loved them, if only by virtue of their shared blood? Shameful as it was to admit, she couldn't be sure.

But Caleb, buried out in the field, was the one she would mourn for most of all. At the thought of him, in spite of her roiling arousal for the man carrying her, tears pricked her eyes, her throat tightening. She fought them back, swallowed hard. She didn't want to cry now. If she lived into triple figures, she didn't know if she could ever fully atone for his suffering and loss. The unspeakable acts that had befallen him by one of her—she supposed—now brethren, couldn't have been further from what she was about to partake in with the man carrying her. How she could ever reconcile his demise with her rebirth, her brethren with his abuser, his death with her life, she did not know.

What she will do right now is live for him, honor him in memory.

The dark man carries her into the house, where he carefully lays her down on her parents' bed. As if the turn of events couldn't get any more sacrilegous and sinful, she is going to give her virginity to a minion of Satan himself, right here, with her own mother's blood on her chest.

The modest fire she had kindled earlier has grown substaintially, the logs babbling in their language of pops and crackles. As she removes her shoes and socks, she watches the light dance over Papa, standing at the foot of the bed like an incubus waiting to seduce and feast on his prey. Her gaze wanders downwards, until she reaches-

Although she had felt his erection against her, the sight of it, albeit clothed, makes her gasp. Rebecca, the girl of ill repute in the plantation, had described men's aroused bodies in detail, and the comical aesthetic of tented material. Thomasin, however, simply finds the sight torturous. She is desperate to see Papa naked, to explore his skin with her fingers and lips, touch and know the hard parts of him that correlate to the yielding parts of herself. And she wonders how hot the flames of Hell actually are, because the sight of him has made her depraved. He watches her throughout—she feels him—and when they resume eye contact, he is brandishing an enticing half smile. She knows he can read her thoughts.

Still watching her, he undresses. First, his mitre, which he places in front of him on the bed; she catches her breath, noting the absence of head hair, and in its place, black paint or ink. It's a striking look, but if permanent, she can only imagine the pain he must have endured to achieve it. Perhaps he doesn't feel physical pain as she, or christians, do? If he feels it at all, perhaps he even enjoys it?

Next comes his chasuble, which he casually flings into the basket by the wall—the basket that would have contained laundry for washing tomorrow, but now sits empty. Grief surges, and she tries to choke it back before it interferes with her desire. Evidently she does not do this quick enough, though, because he notices. He doesn't offer any words of comfort, although his eyes are kind. He lays down beside her, beckoning her to him.

She obeys readily, welcoming his embrace once more, in conjunction with his less constrained erection. As he strokes her hair and plants a tender kiss on her forehead, the tears start again, silent but unremitting. Although her bare skin is flush against his covered hardness, desire pulsing steadily throughout her entire body, for the next few minutes she doesn't think of sex. She thinks again on her mixed bag of fortune, on how differently things could have turned out had she ignored that raven's call, or if she had simply fought her mother off instead of stabbing her to death. And then she thinks of the moments she would sit by the fringe of the wood, entranced by something she could neither describe nor explain. She thinks of Samuel's wretched, damned soul...only to recall casting off her uncomfortable clothes, and the rush of solace she had felt when the Stranger took her into his arms. And she thinks of how safe she feels now with that very man holding her, and the need for him that she cannot imagine feeling for any other man.

In spite of everything that has occurred, she does not regret him.

Time marches on with her wrapped in the sinful man's arms, basking in his gentle ministrations. Evident arousal notwithstanding, he seems thoroughly content to remain this way, waiting for her signal. She cannot imagine the young men at the plantation being so considerate.

Or their bodies so enticingly warm. As her tears slow and her nose clears, she nuzzles her face into the crook of his clothed neck, inhaling his scent. He smells like incense from the Catholic churches of back home—places she, as a good Calvinist girl, was forbidden from entering. She had snuck into them on occasion, telling herself that, unlike the sect she had been raised in, God did not discriminate between the factions of His vast religion. The thrill of those adventures has stayed with her, as has the scent of them. Being the inverse of Catholic, Papa is even more thrilling. Like those churches, he is the place she must not go, whose teachings she must reject, yet so much more.

Oh, he smells so unbelievably good.

He is sin incarnate, and she is ready to receive that sin inside her.

"I want you," she murmurs, propriety thrown to the wind.

The look in those mismatched eyes turns into one of pure lasciviousness, and suddenly she feels very small and very young and devastatingly fragile in his sights... and it _thrills_ her. She stands no chance against the mass of strength, power and solidity that he is; and that in itself is as blisteringly hot as it is terrifying. Exterminating her precious little light would be as easy as blinking to this demon of a man who haunted her nights and her dreams for two years. How would he do it, she wonders? Would he simply snap her neck? Or would he ram his gloved fist into her chest, smashing her ribcage, and yank out her heart, delighting in her dying, wide-eyed horror as he then tore those lethal teeth into the still beating organ? Would he turn into a one-man feeding frenzy, biting a chunk out of her neck and then gnashing and tearing until he was through to her spine? Her death would be her final, most profoundly intimate gift to him and his master Satan; something for him alone that he would remember and treasure forever. She would die his. She would go to Hell his.

He is on top of her, then, his leather-clad hands lacing with hers, and the firm, comforting weight of his body bearing down on her. His covered cock is so insistent against her she can hardly take it. Those painted lips claim her own in a sumptuous kiss, and she responds torridly, trying to mesh as much of herself with him as possible.

_I want you. I need you. I have to have you in me._

The God who forsook her would never have allowed this. But she has always wanted more, hasn't she? She had wanted so desperately to be a good girl, and Lord knew she had tried, but this man _was_ that more—more than she could resist, and more than her God could save her from.

Just as she thinks he is about to introduce some tongue, he brings their bond to a close. She pushes her body against him, urgently, straining upward to try and reach his mouth. She realises she is gasping.

He fixes her with a sly expression, stroking the back of one hand down her cheek. "So needy, aren't you."

"Please..." she manages. "I want you."

"And you will have me." He rolls his hips against her, illustrating his point, and she can only think in expletives. Her copious wetness is sullying his alb, she is sure. "But there's no need to rush."

He buries his face into the side of hers, inhaling the scent of her hair—how wonderful it is to have him cherish her hair—then brushing soft lips over her earlobe. Then he is placing tingly, gossamer kisses along her jawline and to the right side of her neck, teasingly light pressure and warm breath awakening nerves she didn't know she posessed. She doesn't think he can possibly up the intimacy without penetrating her, only for him to prove her wrong, sinking into lingering oral carresses against the area where her pulse is strongest. Unprepared, she gasps, a burst of hot little shivers tiptoeing hurriedly down her neck and into her shoulder and back. The sensation is indescribable, close to how she imagines an orgasm might feel if she could orgasm in her neck. His tongue probes her there, over that steady thrum, making her wish he would bite, puncture the skin, taste her lifeblood.

The thought of this triggers an image of her mother's last moments, bleeding from the fatal wound her own daughter had inflicted; she shoves the thought away.

Down he goes, licking a slow, torturous path along her jaw, and then down the pale column of her throat. To her clavicle, tongue tracing the bone, sensitizing her. Her skin tingles in his wake.

She needs him. She needs him. Oh God or Satan or whoever, she needs him. This is torture, but she knows she will have to endure it, and she wants to endure it for him.

His gaze flickers to hers, pupils heavily dilated with desire, as he lingeringly trails his way over her mother's blood. The dried substance reconstitutes, staining his tongue, and the accursed thought resurfaces. Then, as if psychically joined, the sinful man says in a quiet tone: “It wasn't your fault.” He holds her gaze, his expression one of such startling compassion she almost feels moved to tears all over again. He doesn't blame her. He doesn't judge her. It was self defense, not pre-meditated, and he understands that, and sees fit to forgive her. That level of understanding is something she cannot imagine getting from anyone else.

She fights back the tears. Though they are heavy, she doesn't want them now. She will let them go later, unless they force their way out.

A long beat, and then he moves his attention to her breasts. He engulfs the soft flesh of her right breast with his mouth, sucking deeply, and then swiping his tongue around the hardened nipple. The warmth and moisture of him have her skin humming with a wonderful, tickly pleasure. She utters a shuddering breath at the sensation, one hand curling into the back of his collar, the other stroking his shaven head. He chuckles, revelling in her reactions—his little neophyte in this world of dark gods and forbidden sensations. Several electrifying flicks of his tongue over the tip of her nipple, and then he takes his ministrations to the left breast; she can do nothing, say nothing, except to take a long and trembling inhalation.

But he does not linger there, choosing instead to give her only the sweetest of tastes to instill a need for more. In an instant he is off her, and striding to the foot of the bed. Suddenly alone, her skin is virtually screaming for contact, and she reaches out her hand, silently pleading with him.

"Would you prefer me dressed, sweet child?" he says teasingly.

She shakes her head.

"Well then." He shoots her a wry smile. He undoes the cincture at his trim waist, throwing it into the basket, then undoes the buttons at the back of his alb. Moments later that too is in the basket. With the exception of his gloves, shoes and socks, here he is before her, gloriously naked.

She is going mad. She has never wanted anyone else so much in her entire life. At first she is not sure what to focus on, because all of him, dear forsaken God, all of him, is demanding her attention. Older though he is, he is evidently no stranger to physical exercise. His physique is lean and impressively toned, with a light dusting of dark hair on his upper chest. The black ink or paint on his face and neck does not end at where his collar reached, but extends out to his shoulders and tapering to a point between his pectorals.

Noting her interest, he answers: "It's a tattoo."

"All of it?"

"Mmm hmm."

Tattoos are a rarity in her world, save for convicts and people of specific trades, and even then they're always discreetly placed. Facial ones are unheard of except for in the circus. Christianity, however, shuns even the most insubstantial permanent ink, irrespective of placement—for Papa to have one on the only body part he cannot conceal, is beautifully blasphemous.

"Did it hurt?"

He fixes her with a burning gaze, laden with seductive promise. "Many things hurt, sweet child. But they're worth the pain."

The sentiment is not lost on her.

She casts her glance southward, following the trail of hair from his navel toward the part of him that she craves. An irrepressible little "Ohhh" escapes her at the sight of his cock, and she finds her heart aflutter, her teeth biting her lip. Although she has nothing to compare him to—save her brothers, whose infantile forms roused nothing more than natural anatomical curiosity—her ardor is set ablaze. He is enticingly large, both in length and girth, his foreskin either pulled back or non-existent. His balls appear to be shaved, and the dark hair at his pubis, too, is strangely neat. He looks like he makes an effort for his lovers.

She wants to explore him as much with her hands and mouth as with her eyes and pussy, touch and probe and stimulate him as Rebecca would brag of doing. "When a man cums," Rebecca had said, "he ejaculates semen. If he cums inside you he'll probably get you pregnant, but if he's in your mouth or hands, it gets all over you. It's like a warm fountain, and it's got a kind of slimy texture, and it's white-ish and tastes really salty and weird." At the time, Thomasin had felt mildly put off by the idea of touching and tasting this ejaculate—it didn't exactly sound very appetizing—but now? The idea of experiencing _Papa's_ cum on her skin and tongue is enough to nearly make her salivate.

"Can I...touch?" she ventures.

"Of course. Soon. First of all-"

It both surprises and excites her when he re-dons his mitre. Although his bald look is attractive, the headdress makes for an undeniably sexy addition, reminding her loud and clear who she is giving herself to: a representative of Satan. Satan's eyes are on her, through this man. To be intimate with him, is to be intimate with his master. Her core is throbbing with need.

"-I need to taste you."

 

 

 


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 1:
> 
> \- “Kicsim” is pronounced “kee-cheem”.  
> \- “Báthory Erzsébet” is pronounced “BAA-tory Air-ZHI-bet”.  
> \- “Kocs” is pronounced “coach”.
> 
> 1\. Although I always aim for as much historical accuracy as possible, I have to employ poetic license at times. Apologies to any history purists reading this. 
> 
> 2\. As usual, an abundance of thanks to all my lovely jubbly people.
> 
> 3\. Also as usual, constructive criticism is very welcome. Don't be shy, muahahaha ;)  
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Chapter 3**

 

With practised ease he leans over her, hands deftly sliding beneath her lower back and then sweeping her towards the edge of the bed. He kneels before her, gliding a gloved hand up her body to hook his index finger in her mouth. That look—lustful yet tender, deviant yet affectionate, fascinated yet understanding—makes it seem as if nothing exists outside of this room. No corpses of her family nor their livestock; no wilderness; no living nor dead; no night or day; no warmth or cold. Nothing, except him. He is all she wants and all she needs. She wants to say something, but cannot find the words. She sucks on his finger instead, tasting the buttery smooth leather.

His hands slip under her butt cheeks, pulling her exposed sex to him, and then he is on her. He begins so gently, running his tongue slowly and delicately over her swollen clit just once, as if she is fragile enough to shatter with the merest touch. A spark of pleasure awakens, the first step in the prelude to Hellfire, and she inhales sharply. A pause, and then another lick with equal carefulness, to instil a roaring need for more; and her body obeys, craving him. He places a feather-light kiss over the area, before nuzzling his face right into her sex, and kissing deeply.

_Oh God, oh Satan, oh..._

When he murmurs "You taste delicious, sweet child," she gives a downright pitiful whimper. He lavishes kisses upon her pussy, slicking up her already moistened labia, before deftly slipping his tongue between the folds and licking upwards. "Do you know how hungry I've been for you?"

"Oh f-fu..." she puffs, but is cut off by an effervescent rush as he starts to lap at her clit. Before he showed up, she had never even sworn in her head; now here she is, thinking and speaking in expletives, because he feels so damn good and she is so damn weak and she can't help it. When she had touched herself, thinking of him, never could she have imagined what he would really feel like. His lips and tongue are so, so much better than fantasy and her own fingers—a perfect combination of skill, pressure, warmth, and moisture, like a finely honed equation that cannot fail.

"Seeing you every day for two years, blossoming into a woman right before my eyes."

O _h fuck..._ He pushes his tongue into her, as far as it will go, and then works it in and out.

His _tongue_ is inside her, dear Lord.

Her calves tense, seemingly of their own accord. She emits a wordless cry, one hand clenching into the sheets, the other into the taut flesh of his shoulder. He tongue fucks her, his fingers clenching at her butt cheeks as if he's trying to bunch up the skin. She is at once pleasured and tortured by the sensation, torn between the sweetness at her entrance and the incessant trilling in her clit, wanting him at both places simultaneously.

"Feeling your _need_ for me _._ Knowing the secrets you kept."

"How did you- oh... How did you know?"

Oh sweet fallen angel, his tongue... his lips... Drawing the entire area around her clit into his mouth... Sucking on it... Flicking his tongue back and forth over her clit, round and round... She's not quite there yet, but she's rapidly getting close.

"I could smell it on you." Flick, lap, lick. "I saw it in your eyes." Flick, lap, lick, kiss. "You were so hard to resist." Flick, lap, lick, kiss, penetrate—a myriad of intoxicating sensations, ever swelling like the rising tide. Her eyelids flutter closed, but they don't shut out the flames, which she is certain have grown in strength and vigor over the last few minutes. Their heat is on Papa's lips and tongue, and upon her, and inside her, urging her on, on on.

Suddenly he stops, and before she opens her eyes to see if he's suddenly evaporated and this has all been a fevered dream, he is laying down to her right. She notes his feet are naked now, too, and hopes he won't remove his gloves—like his mitre, they add to his imposing atmosphere. They speak of authority, of success, of wealth in finances and knowledge. They call for reverence. They are a master's gloves. She looks at them, and is ready to surrender.

Oh, dear forsaken Christ, is he going to take her now?

He wastes no time, his lips, glistening with her own juices, capturing hers in a slow but commanding massage. She tastes the residue of a metallic tang—her mother's blood—mixed with his saliva, and herself. His left hand slips beneath her head, gloved fingers entangling with her hair, and she reclines onto him, feeling like an infant in her father's arms. Her Papa. He takes her right leg and maneuvers it over his, pulling her butt against his upper leg, spreading her wide. His naked cock digs into her lower back, so alluringly firm, and surprisingly hot. She reaches her right hand back, pressing her palm to his inked cheek and feeling his jaw muscles work as his mouth pleasures hers. He taps her entire crotch area, gently, gently, harder, harder, harder... gently...gently...harder... and oh it feels good, but she wants more, needs more... then-

He pulls away from the kiss, but his hand works steadily, patting and tapping her pussy, then massaging her clit. Oh, Lucifer, she is a tight little coil getting ready to be sprung. With a sultry gleam in his eyes, he asks “Now, my beautiful little girl, have you ever fingered yourself?”

“Yes,” she breathes, her body writhing helplessly against him. “And I... There were times I... Used a candle. Imagining it was you.”

He gives a mischievous chuckle. “Mmm, you naughty little thing. Did that candle feel good?”

“Yes, but... But it was cold. And you're so... warm.” She pushes back against him, delighting in his heat and hardness. But it would be so much better inside her.

“So are you. Inside that wet little pussy, you're even warmer than me. It's going to be delicious for both of us, sweet child.”

“Please... Please... Now...?”

“Patience.” He lavishes a deep kiss on her neck. “Tell me, have you ever squirted?”

“H-huh?”

“ _Fucked_ yourself-” oh Hell, the way he uttered that obscenity was pure tantalization, “-until you climaxed, and thought you might have pissed yourself?”

“Nnn...no...”

“OK.” He crooks his middle finger a little inside her, immediately beginning to press and curl it in a beckoning motion. It feels good, so good, yet strange, as if she mildly needs to pee. He licks the side of her face, whispering “Oh, there you are. So swollen already.”

A ragged gasp escapes her as the invisible sparks ignite. The fire in the hearth crackles as if in response. Whether it's his voice or his finger, his body, or simply his presence, he is affecting her, and he is taking her somewhere fathomless and brilliant. He brushes his lips against hers, the barest of touches, and then licks her bottom lip. He does not possess a serpent's tongue, but he might as well for the amount he tempts her.

“Now, there's a little area inside you, right where I'm touching. It feels weird, doesn't it?”

She nods.

“Don't worry about that. Just relax, trust your Papa.”

 _Trust your Papa._ Oh, he knows just how to woo her. She's surprised she hasn't fainted.

“What I'm going to do is make you cum this way first; and when you do, you'll squirt, a lot.”

Beckoning her...

“It'll feel a bit like you need to piss, and you might think you're going to piss, but it's _not_ piss, not at all. So please, don't worry. It just comes out the same little hole.”

Calling with his finger, the most offensive one to swear with. Touching and claiming her with his sin finger.

“And it'll feel incredible, better than the other orgasms you've had.”

And oh, he's right. He's so right. Despite the strangeness, his ministrations are already working.

“Go with it. Let your Papa show you.”

 _Papa..._ she thinks. _Papa_. Her Papa is calling with that gloved finger for her to come to him, come to him, _come,_ and she is sure it won't be long.

“How about I add another one?” he suggests conspiratorially.

She nods frantically, craving heat and fullness; he obliges, dipping his index finger alongside his middle companion, curling one and then the other. He is stretching her, but no further than the candle had done, and although she is tight around him she feels no apprehension for how his cock will fit inside her. She knows it will, because the stretching feels wonderful. She is squirming against him as the pleasure climbs, breathing audibly.

“So sensitive,” he coos, pressing and walking leather-clad fingers over that throbbing little area, which she can feel growing, swelling. “Let me tell my sweet girl a story.”

His ministrations become firmer, faster, as if he has gauged that she is capable of withstanding them without shattering.

“A little over two years ago, in a place not too far from here, there was a market. At that market, amongst the throng, there was a family of six.”

Through the haze of swelling pleasure, the scene begins to materialise in her mind. She is remembering now: there was something about this specific market, something that struck her as unusual at the time, but that she quickly forgot about.

“And there was a carriage. Its windows were dark, so no-one could see inside.”

Oh, Higher or Lower Power, she sees it. She can almost taste the smoke in the air, smell the variety of foods cooking, hear the chatter all around her; but most of all, feel the rumble of the approaching vehicle with its curiously masked driver, and two midnight black horses, strange because not many people were wealthy enough to own coaches or more than one horse. And beyond that, she sensed...

“In this carriage, there was one passenger. As the carriage rolls by, he sees the family. He sees the pretty girl.”

The ascent continues dauntlessly, her back arching with it, her toes curling, pleasure shaping her as if it were human hands. Unlike her external climaxes, this one isn't concentrated solely in her sex; rather, it is filling up her whole body, the bubbling sweetness inside her morphing into ripples; and the ripples-

“And the pretty girl turns, and she sees the carriage. She doesn't see the passenger, but she feels him.”

The coach drives slowly by, and she watches, her attention drawn to the window. Although she cannot see past the dark glass, she is overcome with the strangest conviction that she is making prolonged eye contact with whoever is behind it, their gazes connected until physical impossibility prevents it. What is more, for a moment, and just a moment, she gets a flash of something more profound, but beyond reason and comprehension: a bond with this mysterious traveler. It's ludicrous, of course, the over active imagination of her perpetually busy mind, so she makes herself forget. As the coach recedes from view, she does not let thoughts of it linger.

His fingers work their ceaseless dance, harder still, the ripples of pleasure giving rise to broader reaching waves. She moans his name, both in reflex and answer to that forgotten mystery. Her right hand is clinging to his neck, and her left the sheets, trying to anchor herself to reality, because she is slipping away.

“You thought you forgot me, sweet Thoma _sin-_ ”

The way he enunciated the last syllable of her name... Those waves are spreading through her, rolling implacably from the source and caressing every inch of her.

“But I never forgot you. I came to you; now cum for me.”

She feels the need to bear down as if expelling urine, except mixed with the most mind-blowing pleasure she has ever experienced.

“There you are.” Jabbing his fingers into her, mercilessly and relentlessly. “I can feel you. Cum for me.”

That does it. He takes her, and the feeling takes her. Wholly overcome, she goes under, her body jerking uncontrollably as if truly possessed. She is hotter than fire and hotter than Hell and she is gushing. She's aware that she's crying out, over and over, but her voice seems somehow far away, as if she's removed from her body. At that point in time, she knows nothing but the man whose fingers are inside her and then outside her and then inside her, and delirium. And the delirium lasts for what seems like ages, as she gushes and stops, gushes and stops, shaken and battered against the rocks in a stormy sea.

Finally the sensation begins to subside, lowering her down onto the shore, where she is left panting, boneless and faint. As she regains her breath and composure, the dark man holds her close, the erotic yet comforting pressure of one gloved hand stroking her hair, the other around her waist, so strong, so hard and warm and protective. He presses tickly whisper-kisses along the side of her face, murmuring in a voice that is luxury and decadence made sound: “Come unto me, _kicsim_. And you did. Oh, you did.”

 _Come unto me._ Oh yes, she had, blasphemously and amazingly.

“ _Kicsim?_ ” she asks. Whatever it was he had said, in whatever language, it sounded beautiful and incredibly sexy. He could have called her a nanny goat in that exotic language and it still would have been enough to get her juices flowing.

A knowing smile. “Hungarian term of endearment. Means “little one”.”

And how well she is aware of it. She is so young and naïve, an inexperienced child in the face of his maturity and experience, and it is such a turn on.

“You're from Hungary?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I've heard legends...” She knows little about Hungary except that it's a country in Europe famous for a fearsome warrior known as Attila the Hun, coaches such as the one Papa had traveled in, and reports of occultism. Naturally, he would have to be from somewhere like that. It would be downright comical if it didn't only enhance his pitch black allure. “A countess... Elizabeth...something. Virgins... Blood sacrifices...”

“Báthory Erzsébet,” he purrs, the blood-crazed countess' name sounding like pure sex in the demonic man's native tongue. “All true. She was my aunt. The _kocs_ you saw that day was hers.”

She has no reason to disbelieve him, but any thoughts she could have had on the matter are dispelled when he releases her from his embrace, and-

_Sweet forsaken God-_

“But more about her later, _kicsim_.”

-is crawling on top of her... taking her extremely pliable legs, hooking them over his lower back...

Oh merciful beautiful whoever in Heaven or Hell Omnipotent Being or Being _s_ , yes. She may have gushed out a river mere minutes ago, but, unlike self-pleasure, instead of being sated by her climax, she only wants more. Rather than closing the door on her arousal, he has only opened it wider than ever before.

He raises his upper half on strong arms, a dominant lording over his subordinate. In one smooth movement, he quickly takes his erection in hand and slides between her slick labial lips, but stops short of entering her. His fingers lace with hers as he readies himself, after what feels like forever, to penetrate her. She gazes up at him with heavy-lidded, lust-fogged eyes, feeling her chest rise and fall, hearing herself breathing and the fire chanting its liturgy. Golden orange flame light licks at her master's skin.

She wants this so badly. She needs this.

“So sweet,” he coos.

Their gazes lock, a visual pact to capture this moment, this solidification of their unholy union, with eyes wide open. The intimacy, the knowledge that he is with her and guiding her and seeing into her as he _sinks_ into her, is nearly more than she can cope with, but she doesn't want to look away. It almost inspires fear, that atavistic terror of being in a predator's sights with nowhere to run—except that predator is not death, but truth. This male embodiment of sin is the only one to see her stripped entirely bare, as naked in mind and soul as in body, and at her most vulnerable. His eyes, focused so entirely on hers, are a compelling reminder that she has given him more than she has ever given anyone. Yet, she knows that even if did fear him, even if she wanted to avoid his gaze, she couldn't. Something in her needs, demands, to be joined with him in as many ways as possible, whether or not the intensity of it all ends up spilling tears. This moment is his as much as hers—his victory. He saw her, he wanted her, and now he is claiming her. It is not an invasion; she wants to be claimed by him.

Slowly, to draw the moment out, he slides all the way in.

Feeling him enter her for the very first time steals her breath. She is yielding, stretching, and it feels-

For all her need to maintain eye contact, she finds hers wrenched away before he reaches the hilt, closing in reflex as a wave of unbelievable sensation careens through her. Her spine contorts, and she throws her head back, mouth opening in a ragged, silent scream. She's not sure whether what she's feeling is pleasure alone, or pain mixed with pleasure. All she knows at that point in time is that the man she's wanted for so long is finally filling her completely, making her stretch to accommodate him; just that very fact in itself is exquisite. And oh, God, Satan... the blunt tip of him is kissing her at her deepest point...

Leaving England was worth it for him. Exile was worth it for him. Desolation was worth it for him. Absolutely.

He's not even moving; just holding her there, letting her adjust to, and appreciate, his size. And appreciate him she does, a stream of expletives running through her head as she fully takes in just how large, how hot and hard and full he is within her. He is pulsing there, snug within her walls and up against her cervix.

She can feel the current flowing through them both, so vivid and vital. Somewhere in her rational mind, in the part of her psyche that's not utterly overcome with a witches' brew of carnality and emotion, she realises that she should be feeling some sort of discomfort even at this early stage. Yet, at the same time, she also realises that the mental connection she has with this man may be compensating for it.

When she brings her gaze back to his, his expression is full of gentle fascination. Again, his tenderness catches her off guard, and she has to mentally steady herself so as not to let emotion overwhelm her. She cannot let herself cry yet, even though he didn't appear to mind.

“Mmmm,” he says, studying her with that same entrancing blend of desire and wonder, “does that feel good, my little sinner?"

She nods desperately, letting out a tiny whimper, luxuriating in the sound of that decadent voice and the sensation of being filled, _fulfilled_ , by him.

"Do you know, it feels amazing just being inside you. You're throbbing all around me. Thoma _sin_.”

His words are gold, silk, velvet, butter, cream, wine. But most of all, they are sex. And her name on his lips is no longer one that her parents gave her, but one that he chose, recast in this new form he has made her, this witch image.

"However, if it starts to hurt, just say the word and I'll stop, or slow down—whatever feels best for you. If _you're_ not enjoying yourself, neither am I."

She responds with another nod. She can't believe he's being so courteous, and yet, she can. He's not like those other men that Rebecca would speak of, who sounded far more concerned with their own enjoyment than hers. He might as well be a different species of man.

"Good."

All thoughts are severed for that moment, though, as obviously feeling her acclimatization, he slowly begins to move. She takes a huge gulp of air, squeezing her eyes shut in wonderful shock as she feels the delectable glide of engorged muscle inside glazed walls. Oh, it's good, so so good, awakening and exciting vaginal nerve endings dormant until that point. Even her lower stomach, and her thighs, feel delightfully sensitive. At a lingering pace, he unsheaths himself almost to the tip, then sinks back in to the limit; and again, and again, and again. She is moaning aloud, neither able to stop herself, nor caring. She wants her very first lover to know where he's taking her. Their pelvises are in perfect alignment for him to stimulate her clit if he wants, but he chooses not to, letting her enjoy penetration alone. And she does, revelling in this new, illuminating sensation. Whether he's fucking her, or making love to her, or both, he is resonating in her body and dear God it feels delicious.

“That's right, child,” he intones softly. Oh, there he goes again: in... nearly all the way out... back in... right up against her core... “Just like that. Delicious, isn't it?”

“Yes..” she says in a shuddering whimper, savoring the texture, savoring every tiny molecule of heat in that smooth, rock hard cock as he works his way in and out of her, smiling at her vocal emissions.

She expects him to speed up soon, but he doesn't; he keeps it slow and steady, like feeding her the tiniest bites of the most mouth-watering food, until she feels she could scream with hunger. So deep, so deep, so goddamn _deep;_ but she is famished, begging for the main course, for him to stimulate her harder and faster. She tightens her grip on his hands, scrambling to communicate her need through squeezing, because the most coherent semi-sentence she can form at this point is "Papa...please...please..." Her ankles lock tighter, increasing her legs' clamp around his lower back, trying to force him closer to her. Blessedly, he evidently understands, his thrusts quickening slightly and not withdrawing as far.

 _Oh, thank you, Papa,_ she thinks, although she can't articulate it. _Thank you, thank you, thank you._

He extricates his fingers from hers, and immediately she reaches up, her left hand grasping at the back of his neck, the underside of his mitre lappets brushing her hand. Her right strays to his back, where she concentrates on the way he works her—the undulations of his spine, the gliding of his shoulder blades, the dips and peaks and the lean muscle flexing and contracting with each thrust. Then, the way his hips mash against her inner thighs, the strength and assuredness in his actions. She studies his face, his tattoo, finding herself thinking how absurd it is that the simple construction of a set of features can determine what is attractive or ugly, and how a sinister modification such as his makes him visually so much more appealing, and so much more than just a man. How bizarre yet wondrous, too, that the eyes alone—such a tiny part of the body—can convey so much without the utterance of a single word; because the way he looks at her, with that jarring mismatch of hazel and whitish-blue, makes her rejoice forsaking God, Heaven, and all things pure.

He is watching her come undone, reminding her unequivocally that it's OK to let go, to surrender herself to the dizzying heights of lust and emotion and the decadence of sin.

His thrusts become yet more forceful, and she furrows her brow with the increase in sensation. It's so good, so damn good. He's hitting her cervix every time, jabbing his cock head right into her, hard, but instead of the stab of pain there she would feel when somtimes using a candle, her body exults in the contact. There is a hot flash of sensation in her crotch, coupled with warmth suffusing her cheeks and upper chest; she hisses, realising he is now brushing his groin against hers. Her clit, abandoned earlier in favor of her internal sweet spot, is eagerly beginning to respond; and although the penetration alone is delicious enough to take indefinitely, she wants to be carried to wherever Papa wants to carry her.

"You're blushing," he remarks with a roguish smile. "On your chest, too. You know what that's called?"

Before giving her a chance to reply, he lowers himself onto his upper arms, dipping down to give her slightly swollen lips a rough, fierce kiss. Mewling, she digs her nails into his neck and back, trying to pull him back in and drink more of him; and he complies, indulging her. She's absolutely ravenous for him, unable to get enough, or to know how to cope with how he's affecting her. The pleasure in her clit is increasing as his brushes against her crotch, together with his beautifully punishing thrusts, become more determined. He knows precisely what he wants to do to her, and nothing is going to stand in his way.

For the first time, she is the one to break the kiss, simply in order to cry out as the sweetness soars higher, higher still.

"It's known as the 'sex blush'," he intones huskily, changing tack and rolling his hips in a circular motion, massaging her cervix and vaginal walls and making her cry out in surprise. "It means your body can't hide how much you're enjoying yourself."

His name is the only actual word she can muster, her ability to verbalize caught up in a tempestuous sea of sensation and being buffeted around, mostly out of reach.

“Yes, sweet child,” he murmurs, through churns of his hips, and passionate kisses and nips against her face, “You feel how slick my cock is? How hard you're keeping me? How you're coating me with your nectar?"

The ease with which he talks as he fucks her, in stark contrast to her inability to assemble words at all, seems astonishing. He has more composure than she could ever dream of; and it feels exhilerating.

"You're pulsing all around me. It's enough to make me crazy, like I'm on the verge of shooting my load inside you.”

She can't stop crying out.

“But I won't. I could, but I won't. But you? I can feel _you_. My little sinner's going to cum very soon, mmm hmm. Let me take you over the edge.”

Yes, let _him_ take her over the edge. He: the one in control. She is so thoroughly, consummately enthralled by everything that he's doing to her; how he's dominating her, claiming her, telling her outright that he is the sole source of her pleasure, and that she and all that she feels belongs to him. For this, any semblance of agency she would otherwise have simply vanishes, leaving her with nothing but to surrender and submit to whatever he desires, content to be tormented and torn apart if that's what he wants. He could ruin her. At that moment, she would willingly do anything he asked of her, and she's not sure whether to be more frightened that she feels this at all, or that in fact she finds such a precarious concept thrilling.

Seemingly gauging her proximity to orgasm, whether by her ever more spasmodic vaginal contractions and the electric-like jolts of her hips, or a direct link to her mind, he pauses momentarily, keeping her balancing perilously on the edge of absolute ecstasy but not ready to take her over yet. But she's on fire, the need for completion overwhelming her and causing her to writhe and strain against him, her nails threatening to embed themselves into the flesh of his neck and back, begging him through whimpers and suddenly tear-filled eyes to consummate her. And then he appeases her—lightning fast, he whips her hands from his neck and back, pinning them aside her shoulders, his weight atop her and the vice-grip on her wrists close to crushing them. Then he's moving once more, melding their hips, screwing her tighter, tauter, and then at the pivotal moment changing tack and striking in and out mercilessly.

“Cum for your Papa, my beautiful little Thoma _sin_ ,” he coaxes her, and although his tone is glossy, his gaze is _roaring_.

She does. She obeys, without question. A gale force gust of of euphoric sensation sweeps over her, through her, scorching hands of air clawing her away into the thick of an untamable wilderness; and she is powerless against him and against it, her head flung back, her eyes clamped shut and her voice contorted into wordless exaltations. Her Papa drives his cock into her, brutal and relentless, reverberations of his thrusts enhancing and prolonging her climax, until the intensity subsides. Only then does he slow, and stops.

Did he cum, she wonders? She hadn't felt anything. But she can't ask him; she needs a moment to gather herself after such a powerful climax.

They lay, panting together, him fully on top of her, his face buried in the side of hers. He murmurs against her clammy cheek: “That point where you're on the verge of orgasm and you just want to stay there forever: that's how it feels to hold on for you. Beautiful fucking torture.”

“Did you?” she manages breathlessly, too blissed out to try and deduce whether that meant he had or he hadn't.

He looks at her, threading one gloved hand into her hair, and replies with a sultry smirk: “So soon? Child, I didn't spend two years as a goat for this to be over in fifteen minutes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN2:
> 
> I hope this sudden departure into comedy hasn't put everyone off. I felt it had to happen; after all, it can't have been easy for Papa II living as a goat for two years. However, feel free to leave any constructive criticism you may have on it (and any other parts of my writing).


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. On the subject of “unrealistic” sex, besides this being, y'know, fiction: Multiple orgasms during sex (or solo) are not a myth. A 2017 programme aired on UK television, which focused on an international study on (cue Papa III voice) “the female orgasm!” revealed that the more psychologically aroused a woman is, and the more she “lets go” during sex or masturbation, the easier and more likely it is for her to have multiple, intense climaxes. Let's face it, sex with Papa II would be fantastic on any day of the week—the guy certainly knows his way around a woman's body and mind. Plus, given the heightened emotional state our heroine finds herself in, it makes perfect sense her sexy time with him would be a transcendental experience. 
> 
> 2\. Random: I'm presuming most people already know this, but Ghost's first song was 'Stand By Him'. Robert Eggers' first feature film was 'The Witch'. Cue your author (whose own life has been riddled with freakish coincidences for a good many years now) here proclaiming “it's a sign! It was meant to be!”
> 
> 3\. Thank you. You all know who you are. Thank you for helping. Thank you for reading. Thank you for giving kudos, reviewing, and bookmarking. Stay tuned for more Papa II shenanigans, because they're a'cummin ;)

**Chapter 4**

 

For the first time since Caleb's death, she laughs. It just comes out, pure and uncomplicated and free of guilt, and it feels wonderful. Papa laughs with her.

“Two years as a goat,” she says after the laughter subsides, “that's dedication.”

“Why, thank you,” he replies. “It was an _interesting_ experience, but not one I'd care to repeat.”

He winds her hair around his gloved fingers, tugging ever so slightly, like a puppet master reminding his marionette whose strings she is tethered to.

 _Yes,_ she thinks. _Show me I'm yours._

Those adorned lips dust her forehead, her temple, her cheek; and so the two of them remain as her heart resets itself to a tolerable pace. She tries to concentrate on how he's tantalizing her face, instead of how her clit and vaginal walls are throbbing so conspicuously against and around him, or the strength of him pulsing inside her. By all rights, she should be thoroughly sated—it seems impossible that she couldn't be—yet she is not, but if she begs him to continue now she worries the intensity might knock her out.

Of course, somehow he seems to know this. She feels he understands her mind and body like a doctor understands those of his patients', like a writer knows those of his characters'. At her signal, he will take the lead, and like a disciple she will trust and follow.

When that happens, he rolls over so that her smaller form is blanketing his, and he asks with gentle consideration, "Do you want to try riding me?"

Deducing what he means by "riding", his keenness for her to be in control surprises her. According to Rebecca and the other older girls in the plantation, men prefered more passive women—women who enjoyed sex, yes, and were active in expressing their enjoyment, but ultimately who received. Men were invariably the ones on top, who set the pace and did the thrusting.

Not this man, this son of the Devil.

She answers him with a nod, shakily sitting up and straddling him, her palms against his abdomen. Gazing down at him from on high, she feels giddy, and it takes several seconds to clear the giddiness from her head.

Oh, but the look of him, the feel of him within her, the scent of frankincense on his skin, and even the sound of his breathing.... It's almost impossible to believe he is real.

"I... don't know how, really," she admits tentatively, feeling a little apprehensive at her inexperience. She wants to please him, and if possible, impress him, but this is completely new ground.

“It’s OK,” he soothes, his tone velvet-soft, eyes twinkling in the firelight, leather-encased fingers deftly massaging her outer thighs. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. It's not as if you've done this before. Let me instruct you, child."

That voice and how he uses it is a weapon, teasing a whimper from her and making her bite her lip. She is all ears to the most desireable teacher she's ever been fortunate enough to study under.

_Mmmmm... Teach me, Papa..._

"So" he continues, "to start off, swivel your hips. Gently grind yourself against me as you go around."

She obeys, stirring herself around his cock, and giving an involuntary gasp as her vaginal nerve endings and her clit react in delightful favor.

"That's it," he remarks with a salutory nod. "How does that feel?"

"Good..." she utters, noting the resurgence of heat across her cheeks and upper chest.

"Mmmm, isn't it, my little sinner," he says as she moves. "Look how you're blushing.

Although she wants to ask him how much _he's_ enjoying it, proper language is already beginning to tumble away from her pleasure-addled brain. Through heavy breaths and continued whimpers, she manages a "Papa... You... too?"

"Yes," he replies, taking her hands and entwining his clothed fingers with her naked ones. "Very, very much. Now, weave back and fourth a little, just-"

Leisurely, she glides forward and back on his thoroughly slicked-up cock, lovely swathes washing through her as she takes him almost to the point of exit and then all the way back in. She feels the strain against her entrance as gravity nearly pulls him out of her, reminding her how beautifully stiff his dick is; she drinks in the sublime flood of warmth and fullness as she slides herself down over every exquisite inch of him. Instinct has her rolling her hips at the base of the downstroke, moans of his name escaping her lips before she's even aware of it.

He chuckles, a sinful smirk playing on his lips. "Yes: just like that. It seems my sweet girl is a natural."

"Re- Rea...lly?"

The stretch of his well-endowed member is stimulating her in all the right ways, talking in ancient serpent tongues to every nerve in her cervix, her vaginal walls, and her super sensitized labia; even without clitoral involvement, it would have felt magnificent. His eyes are wicked desire and lethal intent, connecting and communicating with the part of her psyche that she, a former Good Girl, endeavored to keep locked in solitary confinement. And the knowledge and sensation of how large and ragingly hard he is, and how sopping wet he's making her, keeps her simmering with the most gorgeous tension.

He gives another nod. "There's a technique to it: gyrating just as you're doing. Undulating your lower back. You did it immediately, like you already knew how."

She smiles down at him, pleased with herself, happy for him.

"Like you were _made_ for this."

She garbles out an "H- oh- ffff- uuuukk... Pa- pa..." and fractionally increases her speed.

"Mmm, you were." His hands place hers on his shoulders, then brush their way to her hips. "I knew it the moment I saw you."

 _Fuck, oh fuck,_ she thinks, the sweetness in both her pussy and clit rising. If he keeps talking like this she's going to climax far quicker than she wants to.

"You have something so rare," his left hand roams from her hip to her arm, up her shoulder, her neck, and to her face, leaving sparks of delicious static in its wake, “so precious-”

The instant his fingers reach her lips, she is taking his thumb into her mouth, sucking on it, scraping her teeth against the sumptuous leather.

"Can't you feel it?" His free hand fondles her butt as she moves, fingers straying to the very edge of her pussy's slippery opening and splaying them to stretch her a fraction wider, making her shiver in delight.

She rides him faster, eyes tuned to his, her every breath a sweet moan.

“In your mind,” The essence of her juices on his fingertips, he massages his way leisurely back up her body, rubbing her own wetness into her skin, reaching a stop at her waist. “In your heart-”

Abandonment encroaching upon her, she moves faster now.

“In your _cunt_ -”

She cries out an expletive, followed by the lust-charged mantra of his name. He feels so good and he sounds so good and he _is_ almost too good.

“Look at you, fucking yourself on my cock like that. So beautiful."

Such sinful words have her responding with whimpers. It's only a matter of time before she'll crest.

Evidently sensing this, he whips his hand from her mouth, clutching her harder at the waist to apply enough pressure to hold her down astride him; then harder still, prohibiting movement. As always, she goes with it, finding heaven in surrendering to him. Whether guided by her own intuition, or her lover's psychic influence, she leans forward, gripping his shoulders. His hands wander to the small of her back to secure her in place. He begins to thrust, making extra effort to keep his crotch rocking against hers, which she welcomes with a ragged cry. Slow and deep, like a scintillating internal massage, and then fast and violent, ramming up against her cervix so hard it almost hurts. He flits between the two, maintaining eye contact with her as he brings her ever higher, tying her in ever more suffocating but divine binds. Although riding him was fantastic, feeling him in control, and being utterly at his mercy, is what really sets her alight.

“That's right,” he grunts through a particularly merciless thrust, “my sweet child.”

Her heart's galloping, her five senses ablaze, and she wonders if her sixth is, too. She can taste his pheromones. Every inch of her skin is alive and sparking against his. She would die like this if she could, feeling him drive himself home over and over, her life flashing before her eyes, until she imploded. The man who had awoken her sexually would be there at her death, killing her in the most magnificent way possible. How is it possible that she's on the precipice for a third time already, looking down into a scalding whirlpool?

“Cum for your Papa.”

It is impossible to hold on when he fucks her like this, as much with that lascivious voice as with his delectable dick. She is struck through, cast adrift, stolen completely by the ferocious current. Any voluntary movement becomes impossible—she is nothing but a recipient, a vessel for the ecstasy her lover is pumping into her. Tremors assail her as the orgasm sweeps over her like a wall of fire, searing and singeing her vulnerable skin, provoking wails that to anyone else would sound like hellish torment.

Seconds later, breathless and limp, she collapses onto him.

Sounds drift into her ears from far away, images flash before her eyes, vibrations whip and brush and dance across her skin. She is not sure whether what she is feeling is imaginary or real, but she feels it nonetheless, as if she were in the midst of it. She hears bat cries, the whisper-quiet gliding of owls, the wriggling of earth worms, the sleeping breaths of hares and rabbits in their burrows; even further away, the dying, truncated screech of a tiny mouse as a fox's jaws clamp down on it. She hears the tearing of tender flesh, the elastic snap of punctured gristle, the crunch of delicate bone, and suddenly she is breathing in the odor of blood, and her mouth is swamped with a warm, metallic tang. Then she sees the world etched in darkness and moonlight from high above the trees, hundreds or maybe thousands of feet, drifting on the currents of the night air. She smells and feels plant and vegetable spores whisk past her skin, scattered on the light breeze.

And she knows... she knows something is stirring, aware of her as she is aware of it or them; that somewhere close, sometime soon, there will be a bonfire, and that she will see and feel the heat of this bonfire for herself.

Whatever is happening, she can sense what no normal person is privy to.

Up in the sky once more, floating high above what used to be her homestead, and she sees things she does not understand. She watches as time speeds up, days and nights flashing by at an impossible rate. Weather patterns shift; innumerable wildlife arrive to scavenge on her parents' and brother's rotting corpses, try their luck in the abandoned buildings, and leave; groups of travelers pass by, the natives, unperturbed by death, inspecting the property for useful spoils, and the whites beside themselves with shock and horror, departing as rapidly as their wagons can carry them. All the while, neglected, the structures of house and barn and outhouse surrender little by little to the ravages of the implacable clock.

She does not see herself there, because she is long gone.

Another blink of an eye and she is above the plantation, watching it evolve like a living organism. It expands in size and number, new buildings appearing, and old ones refurbished in an instant; people grow older and older, some vanishing, new ones popping into existence and running the cycle from infant to ancient. Trees spring up as if from nowhere; vehicles materialize and dematerialize; bells ring-

“Thomasin.”

Present day, crumpled atop Papa, basking in the comforting warmth of his skin and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Her head is swimming, as if she has just fallen from the height she had imagined herself levitating at.

She looks at him, desperately curious. “What just happened? Was I- Was I dreaming?”

He smiles mysteriously, one hand caressing her hair. “You were having a vision.”

She holds his gaze for a long beat, at once incredulous and elated.

“Did you- Could you see?”

“No, but I felt the change in your energy.”

“You can feel when someone's having a vision?”

“Just like I can feel when you're having an orgasm. Your body has tells. Your energy has tells, as does the energy around you. They're all very distinctive feelings, and you can't fake them.”

She can't quite believe it, yet she can. It sounds absurd, but at the same time fits perfectly.

“Don't look so surprised. You and I connected for a reason.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial level: “Satan doesn't choose people at random—not even beautiful girls aching to be deflowered.”

“But that's one of the perks if she meets his requirements?” she quips.

He chuckles. “You have power, _kicsim_. Soon you'll learn how to use it.”

“I have power,” she thinks aloud, letting it sink in. In Puritan culture, power is the privilege of men. Women run households, and in those households rule over their children, but ultimately men are the ones in charge. They make the decisions, the laws, the deals. They are the architects and gatekeepers of society, and the final say belongs to them. The only women to hold any sway outside of that...are witches. Theirs is the erotic, the carnal, the awe-inspiring and the terrible. Theirs are gifts possessed by no other mortal women.

“You do,” the sinful man smiles, like a proud father.

“You say I'll learn,” she says, her face all coquettishness, “but will you also-” languidly, she draws her tongue over his lips, “teach me?” Again, either carried on a psychic current of his, or tapping into some divine intuition of her own, she clenches her pelvic muscles around his cock—to his obvious, pleased surprise, expressed in a scintillating moan. “Encourage me along?”

“Oh,” he remarks, brandishing that wicked smile, one hand toying with her hair and the other fondling her butt, “of course. As your Papa, it's my duty to ensure you receive a thorough _education_.”

She grins, unable to contain her happiness.

“In fact, I already have something in mind.”

“Oh?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Wait and see, child. For now,” his expression radiates irresistible mischief, “how about we continue with those aforementioned perks?”

 

* * *

 

Now it is later; by how much she cannot discern. Whether minutes or hours, it doesn't matter. They've traversed all levels, from the base to the exalted, and now the final, life-affirming death knell is closing in on both of them.

He is going to climax inside her, having assuaged her fears that she won't fall pregnant if she doesn't want to. As he had pounded into her from behind, her face buried in the pillow and her backside up, she had just about caught something to do with apothecaries, and potions taken within 24 hours to prevent conception. She trusts him—she has to, because there is now nothing she wants more in the world than to feel her Papa orgasm inside her.

On hands and knees over her, her legs pressed between their chests and her calves against his shoulders, he slams his cock into her with unremitting hunger. Their lips duel fiercely, she, with her cries muffled against his mouth and tongue, clutching desperately to his thighs. This time, however, he doesn't relent to give her air; kissing her with a blistering, bruising passion. The depth of him makes for thrust after beautifully punishing thrust right into her cervix, their combined ascent soaring ever higher, and it's so good she can't comprehend how it's even possible, or how she's still conscious. The waves come, her climax careening outwards from her cervix, up through her stomach to her chest and arms and right to her scalp, and down through her legs and to her very toes. As if demonically possessed, her constrained body is jolting against him, her legs shaking. Her Papa then allows her the air she craves, wail after keening wail rushing out of her like vocal death throws. He transposes his kisses to her neck—frantic, searing ministrations—roughly snatches her hands from his thighs to pin them at right angles beside her head. His fingers lock hers down, tethering her to consciousness, making sure she feels every lightning-charged particle as it turns her blood to Hellfire. He will not grant her mercy.

Suddenly, through the ecstatic inferno she swears she can feel his cock twitch, and-

“Fuck yes, my sweet child,” he exclaims, the build up of tension within him finally overflowing. At long last he's climaxing with her. To her immense delight, she feels it; actually feels the gorgeous spurts of his orgasm, shot after shot of warm cum splashing and crashing against her vaginal walls and cervix. There is so much of it, so damn much. He's cumming so amazingly hard—his apex accentuated by hers, and hers by his—and it's the most beautiful and erotic thing she could ever imagine.

Oh, she's on fire. Not just burning, but blazing; burning up. It's tearing through her with a force and strength that could strip away skin and muscle and reduce her to bare, charred bones. He'll devour her as they cum together, lay her to waste. She'll leave this world on the most exhilarating high imaginable, and that's how he'll remember her. There could be nothing more exquisite in a million years.

A few more vigorous thrusts and delicious spurts, and then she feels the euphoria begin to tail off. He slows, riding out the last vestiges of their combined climax until it fully subsides, and then he stops. One final, indulgent kiss, and he withdraws from her, reclining onto the partially-sodden sheets and pulling her to him. At his departure, rivulets of his warm seed immediately begin trickling from her pussy, the thought of which would be enough to ignite her desire again if she wasn't so utterly spent. They lay together, sticky and panting, for a wordless expanse, she regarding him with glazed eyes. Her entire body still throbs from the contact.

She wraps her hand around the base of his cock and slowly sweeps upwards, feeling how his erection has barely subsided, and how exultantly slick the skin is with their combined juices. Her hunger to explore him remains, but her muscles and eyes are weak, so it will have to wait. She wipes the potion onto her chest, over the smeared remains of her mother's blood, coating pain with pleasure.

Messy, exhausted and comforted, in the sanctuary of Papa's embrace, sleep soon descends upon her.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes, it is still night. The fire roars on, appearing to have been tended. Although she feels well rested, somehow she knows she hasn't slept more than a few hours. Blinking the sleep away, she sees Papa sitting facing her, fully clothed, in the chair her mother used to rock Samuel on. He is reading from a tome she hasn't seen before—not the soul ledger, but almost as weighty.

He acknowledges her with an inviting smile. “Hello, my little sinner.”

At that gesture, those words, she registers the lingering moisture in her sex, the glaze between her upper thighs, and, a little lower down, the dried residue of his cum. There is much of it still to leak out when she stands up—she can feel it gathered close to her entrance. Mmmm, the idea of Papa's cum oozing from her... Maybe she will scoop it onto her fingers and taste it, or maybe she will wait until next time, or when she gets to satisfy him with her hands and mouth.

Desire for him stirs anew, although she doesn't think she could handle a repeat performance just yet. Instead, she reciprocates the smile. “What are you reading?”

Just then, there is movement from above, and down the ladder climbs a tall, thick-set man, clad head to toe in black...robes? She cannot tell, half of his outfit obscured by blankets slung over his broad shoulders. The garment is hooded, and his face is obscured by a bauta mask that she had learned Venetian people wore at carnivals. Silver rings on his fingers catch the light.

“That's everything,” he says to Papa.

Papa stands up, hands him the book. “Good. We'll see you later.”

The man nods to him, then to her, before making a swift exit. Moments later there is talk outside—three male voices—then the sounds of several horses galloping away.

“Who are they?” she asks.

“Our coachmen.”

“We have a coach?”

“The very one you saw in the market.”

“Elizabeth Bathory's... or... Báthory Erzsébet? Did I pronounce it correctly?”

He gives a wicked half grin. “You did. You're a very astute girl, you know.”

She positively beams.

“So,” he continues, “our drivers: the one you just met is our good friend the raven; another is that hare you kept encountering last week.”

“And the third? Was he a rat or a toad or... some other creature?”

“He's never spent a day in animal form, and frankly he wouldn't make a very good one. He's a spare set of hands to mind the horses.”

“The raven and the hare—they haven't been animals for two years, have they?”

The dark man laughs warmly. “No. I just send them out in that form occasionally.”

“So... where are they taking us?”

That smile again, undoing her, making her ache. “Somewhere far from here.”

 

* * *

 

3AM: the witching hour. They are all here for her. Their sabbath has been convened for her. Their bonfire, their rapturous chants, the ecstatic wracking of their naked forms—all for her.

Ever since leaving England, one particular dream would recur to her, almost on a bi-monthly basis. As the months and years drew on, elements of the dream would gradually shift aesthetically and in interpretation, but at its core it remained the same. Running. She dreamed of taking off when the world around her slept, and tearing away into the dark unknown, without torch, without provisions, without reason or destination. She never reached anywhere—all she did was run through the dark.

She realizes now, that both what she ran from and towards, was fear. She wanted to simultaneously escape fear and embrace it, outrun it and yet make peace with it.

Some things were driven by fate, others birthed accidentally by chance, and, wicked though she used to believe to think it, others by deliberate human design. Until tonight, all of those concepts used to frighten her. Love and hate, joy and pain would come and go, but fear remained ever lurking in the back of her mind, such was its abhorrent value to her. To be so valuable as to be granted immortality in someone's thoughts, waking and sleeping and day-dreaming, that was power. To destroy the lives of an entire family was power. Fear—the destructive kind—had always held too much power over her and her own.

In England, it was the reason she would freeze upon waking in the middle of the night, to find her foot dangling from the end of the bed. In America, although she had no proper bed, it was why she would always ensure her limbs were covered at night. Even until the end of her adolescence, her bedtimes were plagued by the mortal terror that letting any limb dangle, or protrude, would be grounds for some hell-spawned monster to materialize underneath or beside it, grab her, and yank her from the safety of the mattress down or out to a floor that would surely spell a horrific and agonizing death. That space beneath her haven of comfort and sleep held a mystical, terrifying quality; it was the portal to another world, another plane of existence, timeless and enduring, that held frights unimaginable to naïve, innocent eyes. It hadn't helped that, once, as a four year old, Caleb had hid under the bed, pulling her out when her foot had accidentally stretched out too far upon turning over.

That little incident helped perpetuate an existential anxiety that should have passed with her childhood, one that grew from fears of immortal nightmare creatures below or beside the bed to that of their real life counterparts, and which had been solidified since her family's excommunication: true evil and malice existed in the hearts and minds of people. It was _people_ who conspired against you, who turned on you, who cast you out. _People_ hid under your bed or in your wardrobe or behind a corner, primed to attack and maybe even kill. People bullied you, betrayed you, and did harm. Fellow human beings, with unforgiving words or physical implements of torture, wanted to revel in your terror, your anguish, your helplessness, your pain, and your humiliation.

Witches had supernatural powers on their side, granted by their immortal master, but they were no less human. Mercy, Jonas, and her mother, had been human. Whatever hand had shaped the outcome she was living, it had been executed by humans.

She had never found a way to outrun fear, because with hindsight it is clear that the wilderness, the dream unknown through which she had run innumerable times, has always called to her. Deep down, she has always wanted to run blindly on, paradoxically in spite of and for, away from and towards, fear. Fear was human, and in her world humans were viewed only through the prism of Christian faith, or lack thereof. They feared witches, because they chose the Godless unknown. Now they fear _her_ , too, because _she_ has chosen the same.

She has known fear intimately, and embraced it. She has given herself to whatever was in that Godless void, and found that it isn't a void at all. She isn't afraid anymore.

There will be no blue skyed eternity for her soul. This she knows as she rises above the screaming bonfire into the night sky, Papa watching her and the six other women, his female collective of deadly sins. And she laughs, because she is not afraid. She is His, and she is free.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Apparently, having to explain things to your readers is a sign of Bad Writing™. I should be showing you what happens instead of telling, and least of all telling after the fact. However, I'm going to explain a few things, regardless, because as someone who is more than a little dense when it comes to fiction I feel for my fellow dense people. You may have already imagined how Papa's already got transport standing by to whirl Thomasin away to Ghost HQ; if you haven't (because if I were reading this, I probably wouldn't), you can choose from two options: 1. he's had three ghouls hanging out somewhere in the woods with it for a while (except when two of them are in animal form), hidden by a witch or several (you can do a lot of things with magic) until that night; 2. he has the gift of foresight (this is VVitch-verse Papa, so, MAGIC! Whooohooo!), so had the transport pre-arranged. Option 2 also explains how the other witches happened to be there, too, when only two of them had been glimpsed previously. 
> 
> 2\. What, you thought that was the end? Ha hah!! Joke's on you—I have a smutty saga planned! OK, not a saga, but there's a one-shot coming up in several weeks, so stay tuned for that. (Poor Robert Eggers. He'd be choking on his quinoa salad and spitting out his kombucha latte if he knew what I'd done with his story. Trampoline Fandango, as we know, is well aware that people get up to creative shenanigans with his characters, and outright encourages it, so I'm not feeling even an iota sorry for his Swedey culo.) SEE YOU THERE!


	5. Interesting?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a chapter; a random bump of sillyness. If this infringes any rules, I'll happily remove it.

This is something I've been debating with myself for months whether to add or not, and today I decided, why not. Freakish coincidences are a staple in my life, and I thought perhaps it might be interesting to share the Ghost and VVitch related ones with anyone who's interested. They might be a bit of a reach, but they're curious to me nonetheless. 

~ I'm presuming most people already know this, but Ghost's first song was 'Stand By Him'. Robert Eggers' first feature film was 'The Witch'.   
~ Exact dates differ, but some say 'Infestissumam' was released on April 16, 2013. April 16 is Anya Taylor-Joy's birthday. Even though that's the actress herself and not the character, the timing is quite startling.   
~ In Hozier's 'Dinner & Diatribes', we have a pretty sexual ATJ in Papa II's colors.   
~ Photographer Anya Svirskaya took many a photo of Ghost during the 'Infestissumam' era.   
~ During the Infest era, Ghost once toured with a band called Witchgrinder.

Yes, yes, I know, it's probably very silly to everyone except myself, but my little obsessions have me noticing these things (I am autistic, and obsessions are my oxygen. I'm not kidding—there's a huge void in my life if I'm not obsessed with something). You're welcome to leave any thoughts in the comments.


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